"Barney is rather sweet on you," remarked Hunt after the two were
gone.
"I know he is," conceded Maggie in a matter-of-fact way.
"And he seems jealous of Larry--both regarding you, and regarding the
bunch."
"He thinks he can run the bunch just as well as Larry. Barney's clever
all right, and has plenty of nerve--but he's not in Larry's class.
Not by a million miles!"
Hunt perceived that this daring, world-defying, embryonically
beautiful model of his had idealized the homecoming nephew of the
Duchess into her especial hero. Hunt said no more, but painted
rapidly. Night had fallen outside, and long since he had switched on
the electric lights. He seemed not at all finicky in this matter of
light; he had no supposedly indispensable north light, and midday or
midnight were almost equally apt to find him slashing with brush or
scratching with crayon.
Presently the Duchess entered. No word was spoken. The Duchess,
noteworthy for her mastery of silence, sank into a chair, a bent and
shrunken image, nothing seemingly alive about her but her faintly
gleaming, deep-set eyes. Several minutes passed, then Hunt lifted the
canvas from the easel and stood it against the wall.
"That's all for to-day, Maggie," he announced, pushing the easel to
one side.
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